A/N: Some new Harry/Draco for y'all guys! Yaaay! This might excite me more than it does you, who knows? If by chance I'm wrong, please let me know and *nudge nudge, wink wink* review! :P

As promised, Harry did return to Malfoy the following day, right on time down to the very minute. He didn't know what he was trying to do, impressing him by remembering their previous arrangements to the letter. As if he were a hormonal, libido driven teenager again. And even then, he hadn't been the type to chase after blond, aristocratic Slytherins, mouth half open and drooling.

That was precisely what he was. Call it a midlife crisis or what you will… but he felt reckless. He felt like he needed to take chances before it was too late. Malfoy was right. Life was too short not to experience what he truly wanted out of life. Godrick only knew he'd spent the past ten years living for both Ginny and the kids. He'd never stopped to live for himself.

Throwing all caution to the wind, he stepped into the luxuriously columned foyer of the Malfoy Manor, having been escorted in by Minksy, Malfoy's most recent house elf. A part of him felt irked by the sight of the elf there, after Hermione's rigorous campaigning had given the magical creatures certain liberties. Liberties being the ability to work for wages. He wondered if Minksy was being paid, treated properly. If ever Minksy had the decency to let him out after his and Malfoy's daily romps, he made certain to slip her a sickle at the very least. Even if she had no intention of using it.

Another part of him sympathized with Minksy in an agonizing sort of way. There they both were, manhandled by their masters. Being forced to do what they were told against their better judgment. And most of the time, they were blissfully unaware of it.

"Minksy is afraid Master Draco is out and Minksy cannot let Master Potter in. Master Potter can wait until Master Draco is coming back," the little house elf squeaked, all bundled up in her tea cozy, slightly smudged with dust and dirt, her ears long and flapping as she emphasized her orders with practically ever inch of her body like a little interpreted dance.

"That would be fine, Minksy. I'll wait here," he replied genially and Minksy led him into the sitting room with a sweeping bow.

In the time Harry had to wait, he took the opportunity to inspect the Manor's interior in detail. There were portraits lining the walls of all manner of relatives from centuries down the line to present day, all who watched him with judging eyes and whispered to one another about him watching them. No doubt they had an opinion about their successor's conduct with the one and only Saviour of the Wizarding World, the very man who had defeated their Dark Lord.

Trinkets laid across the marble mantle, above a glimmering fire place, which Minksy had let roar to live, flames licking away inside. Authentic gold watches, brooches, jewelry, was put on display for all to see precisely how rich the Malfoys truly were. That was before considering the many busts and statues littered about the house in meaningful and artistic places.

A portrait of Draco himself sneered down at him from above the mantle. Harry peered up at his lover's boyish likeness, nearly twenty years younger. There was a sort of contempt in the boy Malfoy's gaze that made Harry wonder. "Hello, Draco," he mumbled softly in greeting. Experimentally. If he couldn't have one Draco, why not settle for another?

The young Draco glanced down his nose at him, his lips thinning at this address. "I offered you friendship, Potter," he sneered down at him, barely looking him in the eye. "I offered you loyalty and you refused. No one refuses a Malfoy. Father told me that."

Harry frowned, biting his lip. True, Malfoy had offered him friendship. He had offered him loyalty. And he had refused. But at a time when he was young and naïve and didn't know any better. Looking back, he had no regrets in his decision. Had he taken Malfoy up on his offer back when they were eleven, in Madam Malkin's shop, he may not have defeated Voldemort as he had. And where would he be now? "Yes. But I'm not refusing you now. In fact, I'm accepting you. More than I ever have in my life."

"I've been waiting for your acceptance for years, Potter," the painting droned on, rejecting Harry's words. "I watched myself for seventeen years fighting for your acceptance. And the one time you finally come through for us, is when you're forced."

"N-no. I… Malfoy…"

Harry was puzzled. This was all so confusing. He squeezed his eyes shut tied then gradually let his eyelids fall open once more. "I can't explain it, but I… ever since that day, I've been drawn here. I want to be here, Malfoy. More than you can imagine. Because somehow, you make me whole."

"Do I, Potter?" came a familiar drawling voice from behind him. Harry froze, barely breathing. He didn't dare turn around. His cheeks flared, he could feel them burn as he held his face in his hands.

"Malfoy, I can explain," he tried, his voice weak and cracking under the humiliation of being caught talking to the portrait version of his lover.

"You so desperate to have a conversation with me but too afraid to have it with me? Is that it, Potter?"

"N-no. I…" Harry struggled for words as his throat closed up. "You weren't here and I thought I'd wait for you and then I came in here and that was there and you…" A thought suddenly struck him. "You've been waiting for me. You've been waiting for me forever."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Since we met, yes, Potter." He barely flinched amongst this deep admission. He even looked Harry in the eye as he said it. His breathing came slow and rhythmic. Harry found something oddly soothing about watching that rise and fall of his chest beneath Ministry robes.

"Since we met," Harry repeated those words, testing it on his lips. It felt so odd, placing them there. He pressed his fingers absently toward his mouth, as if tracing those words across them, trying to hold them in place and keep them his. He blinked. "But why?"

"God, Potter. You really are that thick, aren't you?" Malfoy leered, pressing a hand to his waist in impatience. With his other hand, he reach up to run his fingers through his otherwise immaculate blond hair. "Do I have to spell it out for you?"

Harry spluttered for a response. Apparently he did have to spell it out, considering he had not a single clue what Malfoy was going on about. He fixed his gaze on Malfoy, waiting for an explanation. But by the look on the aristocratic blond's face, he had no intention of giving one. In fact, he looked equally as perplexed as Harry felt. There was an agony there, in his deep grey eyes that said he wanted to give it, if only his mouth would comply.

Malfoy scowled. "Don't make me say it, Potter," he murmured finally.

"Don't make you say what?"

"That he's in love with you," chimed the eleven year old Draco's voice from behind him in an almost playground teasing way, causing Harry to spin 'round so fast, he saw stars. "That we're in love with you."